


Unraveling a Memory

by smarshtastic



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: M/M, Memories, Memory Loss, Mind Control, Pining, Reconciliation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-13
Updated: 2017-08-13
Packaged: 2018-12-15 00:50:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,879
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11794989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smarshtastic/pseuds/smarshtastic
Summary: But other memories - like that voice, or the question of his identity - trickled back to him in fits and spurts. A large part of him didn't want to know who he had been before the fire and heat and pain - surely it was nobody good. It didn't matter who he had been since he'll never be that person again. But when Sombra says something like that…---Reaper rediscovers who he is and what he's lost





	Unraveling a Memory

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ap0l1o](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ap0l1o/gifts), [fabrega](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fabrega/gifts).



> While I was working on a [commission](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11700234) for ap0l1o, I ended up being inspired to write this one too. 
> 
> Special thanks to [fabrega](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fabrega/), as usual, for her endless patience and heroic betaing skills. 
> 
> You can find me on [tumblr](http://wictorwictor.tumblr.com/) and [twitter](https://twitter.com/smarshtastic)!

It comes to him in flashes - between missions, during moments when others sleep but he is unable. The outlaw, the cowboy: Reaper knows him. 

He doesn’t understand what’s happening to him at first. It starts with a mission briefing with the hacker - Sombra - who pulls up images taken from a botched train heist some Talon operatives attempted in the American southwest. There had been a man, in a hat and a blanket, who showed up on the scene to sabotage the mission entirely. No civilian casualties, but the Talon operatives weren’t as lucky. 

Reaper recognizes the gun. 

It’s a flashy thing, old fashioned; a revolver with six shots and - of all things - a spur on the butt of the handle. It doesn't make any sense at all. Reaper can’t place where he’s seen it before but he’s  _ certain  _ he has. The spur makes an impression. 

That night he dreams, if you can call it that. Reaper tucks himself into the corner of his quarters and lets his consciousness drift. He suddenly remembers an easy laugh and the jangle of spurs, a low, honey-sweet voice in his ear. 

“The spur ain’t just for show, darlin’,” the voice drawls. “Imagine getting the butt of  _ that _ gun to the face.”

Reaper can imagine it, but he still can’t place it. 

The voice comes to him a few times, in quiet moments when he least expects it. He doesn’t tell anyone that he’s having these flashes, whatever they are. Dreams, memories? Reaper can’t be sure and he isn’t about to raise any concerns of his own. He knows the machines Talon uses to control his thoughts, and he’d rather not revisit them, so he stays quiet. 

As much as he tries, he can’t recall the voice on his own. 

There’s a mission that his handler tells him he should enjoy. Something about visiting an old friend. Reaper ignores him, as he usually does. He finds his handler irritating, cocksure, but still looking to prove something to someone who isn’t paying attention or doesn’t care. Instead, on the shuttle ride to the drop point, Reaper focuses on checking his guns, the methodical movements familiar and easy. It’s a ritual he completes before every mission. It’s ingrained in him, left over from another life: check the equipment, double check, be prepared for any eventuality. 

Except this time, as his deft fingers snap parts back into place, the warm voice floats through what’s left of Reaper’s mind again. 

“I love your hands,” the voice says into Reaper’s ear. Reaper fumbles with his gun. He sets it in his lap before anyone notices, sitting inhumanly still, and willing the voice to say more. Nothing comes for a long moment. Reaper is about to go back to his guns, strangely disappointed, when the voice speaks again: “Missed you, sweetheart.”

There's an empty spot in Reaper’s chest where he supposes his heart used to be. Usually, it feels hollow, like nothing at all. Now, it seems to seize up, the bodiless endearment waking something inside of him. The transport shuttle lands and there's no time to dwell on what that might mean; he has work to do. 

The movements are rote. He falls into the familiar pattern of violence, clearing the way for Talon to follow in his footsteps. There's a presence here that he can't place, tugging at that empty space in his chest again. Reaper pushes the strange feeling aside to focus on the task at hand. The violence becomes the only sensation: invigorated by every body that falls, he gives himself over to it, almost trance-like. He's almost finished when he ghosts around a corner and comes face to face with the man in the cowboy hat and the blanket. The spur of his gun glints in the low light. Reaper’s far gone enough to react without thinking; he goes for the man’s throat. Three bullets whiz through Reaper’s insubstantial form - it’ll sting later, but it means hardly anything to him now. He presses forward until the man’s back is against the wall and the claws of Reaper’s glove are beginning to draw blood. The man struggles. He's strong. Reaper redoubles his grip. 

“Stop fighting,” Reaper growls. That only seems to make the man more angry. Somehow, he gets his gun between them again, and the spur connects with the side of Reaper’s mask, knocking it away. Reaper hisses through his teeth. 

All of the fight goes out of the man’s body, his mouth falling open. For a brief moment, Reaper thinks he's actually dead. Then the man speaks. 

“Gabe?” he asks, voice hoarse, but with a hint of that warm-honey tone of Reaper’s memories. The surprise makes Reaper’s grip slacken and then man takes the opportunity to slip out of his hands, ducking away and putting distance between them. 

Reaper doesn't know what to do. The man is staring at him openly, disbelievingly. Reaper should kill him - but he can't. Something pulls inside of him. 

The man runs. Reaper doesn't follow. 

Back in Talon headquarters, Reaper sulks. He doesn't understand what happened, who that man was, why he was unable to finish the job. He snaps at enough people that he's left alone even more than usual. 

The man is important to Reaper, somehow. He just doesn't know how, yet. 

Reaper lets himself into Sombra’s files, searching for a clue. 

“Looking for something, Gabe?” she asks, leaning against the doorframe and idly picking at her long fingernails. Reaper stops, shoulders hunching inwards. She has always called him by that name, for some reason, but Reaper had ignored it. Until now. The cowboy called him “Gabe” too. He turns to face her.

“The man on the train,” Reaper says. “I want to know more about him.”

Sombra looks at Reaper critically. She's tough as nails - she doesn't scare easily, and has always seemed relatively unbothered by Reaper’s monstrous appearance. 

“You and everyone else,” she says. “Why?”

Reaper doesn't say anything. He doesn't trust her - Talon shouldn't trust her as much as they do, in his opinion. But, in spite of his long tenure, nobody really listens to him on these matters. Maybe they should. 

“Do you have information or not?” Reaper asks. Sombra pushes herself off the doorframe and comes to the desk, elbowing Reaper aside so she can type. 

“Not,” Sombra says. “He's almost as much of a ghost as you are, Gabrielito.”

Reaper watches her fingers fly across the keys for a several moments. 

“The man knew me,” he says finally. Sombra pauses and turns her head to look at him, one eyebrow arched interestedly.  

“How?”

“He saw my face,” Reaper says, avoiding looking at her. He wears a mask on missions more or less out of necessity, but around the base he usually just keeps his hood up. People avoid him enough as it is and there's no need to try to make them feel more comfortable about his presence. 

“Your face is very recognizable,” Sombra says, going back to typing. “Anyone with eyes could recognize you.”

Again, Reaper doesn't say anything. His own identity has been something of a mystery to him, one that he's slowly been unraveling for years. At first, being a nameless, faceless monster had its advantages: he didn't question it, he had an innate need, a  _ hunger _ for vengeance that suited Talon’s needs just fine. For years he was content to do their dirty work, never questioning who he was or where he came from or how he got to be like  _ this _ . It was enough to endlessly pursue a satiation that never came. As Talon grew more comfortable with his unwavering loyalty, they spend less time trying to control him. They trusted him without oversight, and Reaper rose through their shadowy ranks. Now, he could boast a certain authority. Reaper didn't take advantage of the increasing freedom, necessarily, but the loosening of the leash had some interesting consequences. Those flashes of memory, for one thing. Even before that honeyed voice came to him, it started with fire and heat and pain, so Reaper didn't want to encourage it. But other memories - like that voice, or the question of his identity - trickled back to him in fits and spurts. A large part of him didn't want to know who he had been before the fire and heat and pain - surely it was nobody good. It didn't matter who he had been since he'll never be that person again. But when Sombra says something like that…

“Here,” she says, pulling up a single document on the screen. There's a picture of the man, face half-hidden by the blanket (scarf?), a cigar held up to his lips by prosthetic fingers, his eyes shadowed by the brim of his hat. 

“That's all?”

“That's all,” Sombra says. She drums her fingers on the desk, fingernails clicking against the hard surface. 

Reaper skims the dossier. It's startlingly thin, particularly for someone who has recently been giving Talon a lot of trouble. 

“So, you know him?” she asks. Reaper turns away from her and moves towards the door without answering. 

=-=-=

Reaper rebuilds his memories with a purpose as he tries to untangle the mystery of the cowboy that haunts his mind. He is reasonably certain he, codename Reaper, is, in fact, whatever that is left of Gabriel Reyes, former SEP soldier and Omnic Crisis hero turned villain, responsible for the destruction of Overwatch. Something about that doesn't click right in his head, but there's nothing to say otherwise, so Reaper lets it lie. 

Gabe. That's what the cowboy had called him.

Reaper (still Reaper -  _ Gabe _ doesn't feel like an identity he can claim yet, or maybe ever) remembers the wild, stunned look in the man’s eye - the recognition. There’s something more, there, but he doesn’t know what it might be. 

Another mission puts Reaper in the cowboy’s path. It's almost on purpose - the mission parameters fit with what little he knows about the man’s MO. Still, Reaper isn't about to allow himself hope. But it's not entirely a surprise when the man shows up to interfere. 

“You,” the man breathes when they come face to face again, surrounded by fire and rubble. His gun hangs slack at his side. There's something in the man’s voice Reaper can't place - something between the misery and longing and anger and fear. 

“Jesse,” Reaper finds himself saying. He doesn't know where it comes from, but the reaction is immediate: the cowboy’s face twists up and he raises his gun again. His hand shakes. 

“Don't you fuckin’ dare,” the man grinds out. 

“Come with me,” Reaper says.  _ Where _ , he had no idea. But if he can get away from Talon’s reaching fingers, somewhere he can figure the man out -

The bullet whizzes past Reaper’s ear, taking a trail of smoke with it. 

“You'd best just kill me,” the man says, practically spits. “I ain't going anywhere with the likes of you.”

The man’s words hurt Reaper in a way he didn't expect, that empty spot around his heart seizing up. When the man runs this time, Reaper starts to follow. His step falters, though: what is he chasing, exactly?

=-=-=

“His name is Jesse,” Reaper says. Sombra looks up at him quizzically. 

“ _ You _ told me that,” she says. Reaper frowns and hopes she can't see for the smoke and shadow of his hood. “It's the only thing we know about him. Jesse McCree. Maybe also Joel, though.”

Jesse McCree. 

The name rolls around in Reaper’s head for days on end, trying to connect with the fragments of memory that have yet to coalesce into anything substantial. On a whim, Reaper digs through his own cache of files. He’s shocked to discover more information than he thought was available. It’s all cleverly hidden, deleted and restored in such a way that only  _ he _ would be able to unencrypt it. 

Did he do this himself?

He must have. Reaper has no memory of doing it, though he must have had a reason. He culls through his hidden files, pulling up images of Jesse McCree in front of the United Nations, standing in uniform as he's awarded some worthless medal. He's clean shaven, upright, filled out, a far cry from the ragged man Reaper keeps meeting in the field. The official pictures are useless to him - they tell him nothing. But the candid pictures he uncovers tell a different story entirely. Jesse McCree standing close to his former self, Gabriel Reyes. More facial hair than the official photos. Looking at him with bright, smiling eyes, laughter on his lips. A hand on his shoulder, heads bowed close. Very close. Intimate. 

Then there's the picture of the kiss. 

Reaper can almost taste it; the sharp bite of whiskey behind soft, warm lips, the brush of facial hair on his cheek, the strong, steady hand pressing against the small of Gabriel’s -  _ his  _ \- back. 

Reaper drops the tablet and recoils back on his bed, putting distance between himself and the image on the screen. The empty space in his chest  _ hurts _ , acutely, as if someone was trying to pull something out of what's left of his body. It makes Reaper gasp for breath. His eyes burn, but tears don't fall. They never do. 

He realizes he loved Jesse McCree. 

Reaper doesn't know what to do with that information. Right now, it just hurts. He curls up on his bed and lets the smoke swirl around him, obscuring his vision. He tries to let his mind go blank, but it's racing. Jesse McCree’s smiling face in those pictures seems far away from the ragged man who recognized him without his mask. But they're the same person, of that Reaper is certain. That pull in his chest isn't meaningless. 

When enough of the pain subsides, Reaper picks up the tablet and keeps looking. Tucked within what looks like a half-finished investigation on the explosion of Overwatch’s Swiss headquarters, there's more pictures, a handful of messages. With every realization, the pain flares bright and hot in his chest. Loss, anger, grief. 

He loved Jesse McCree, and he left?

The puzzle pieces that he had left for himself don't paint a full picture, but there's enough there for Reaper to be able to form better questions. He had clearly been investigating the explosion that killed him - Gabriel Reyes. Something interrupted him, or else he would have pursued this line of questioning. Something had to have happened. He wishes he could remember. 

Reaper absconds from the Talon base in the middle of the night. Nobody will notice and, at this point, few will care that he's out on his own. He realizes that he  _ used _ to be able to be out on his own, with much less oversight than he had even now. He wonders what changed. 

New Mexico is his destination. When he gets down to it, tracking McCree is almost laughably easy. Maybe it's the case that nobody knows Jesse McCree as well as Gabriel Reyes did, or maybe it's that nobody's looking hard enough (Reaper can't believe that - there's a bounty on McCree’s head that surely has some people interested). Reaper staunchly refuses to acknowledge the pull within him that guides him to this no-name, rundown bar in the middle of nowhere. The sensation is surely a figment of his imagination, or - more likely - a product of his insatiable hunger, the hunger that drives him to kill. 

Reaper pretends it doesn't feel different, even though it does. 

He finds McCree slumped over the bar, fingers clutching a bottle of whiskey, eyes glazed over. He looks miserable. That aching tug wells up in Reaper’s chest again, but he forces himself to hang back. 

The rest of the night, he watches McCree drink through the remainder of the bottle until he's passed out on the bar. The bartender doesn't seem to notice, or care, apparently content to let the man drool drunkenly onto the bar. The sight makes the pull in his chest ache again, but Reaper doesn't let himself act on the feeling. He still doesn't comprehend what transpired between them, or what he's feeling. He has to hang back, observe, even though the inaction hurts. 

It becomes something of a hobby for him. Every chance he gets, Reaper slips away from Talon’s watchful eyes and finds Jesse McCree. Sometimes McCree is working his own job, which appears to be vigilantism and undermining Talon, specifically. Sometimes he finds McCree halfway through a bottle of whiskey, that haunted, hollow look in his eyes deepening until he passes out. It's those times that Reaper considers revealing himself to McCree, but he holds back. 

The more he remembers, the more Reaper doubts that there is any hope of an amicable reunion. He remembers, at some point, that Jesse McCree left Blackwatch shortly before the explosion. The anger mixes with grief when Reaper remembers that detail; McCree left him - left him to die. He wonders how much of the explosion is McCree’s fault. 

But the pull in his chest never goes away. It intensifies when McCree is closer, and Reaper can't deny that it's entirely different from the restless, unending hunger that drives him half-mad until he's surrounded by bodies on a battlefield. Draining such bodies of their life force, their souls, satiates him for a time. Would taking that from McCree permanently quell the ache in his chest? Reaper is afraid of the answer. Unlike the souls on the battlefield, though, which retreat and quake in his presence, the feeling that Reaper gets in McCree’s presence is… recognition. Reciprocation. Familiarity. 

If McCree’s soul that's reaching out to him, well. Shouldn't he do something about that?

Reaper doesn't get a chance to formulate any plans by the time he decides he wants to do something about his situation. Talon reins him in suddenly, a pressing mission that apparently needs everyone's attention and the organization’s best. Reaper doesn't realize it's a play against him until it's too late. 

He runs, putting as much distance between him and Talon’s agents as possible. He hopes they don't realize the extent of his growing consciousness. He uses everything he has to make himself disappear. 

When enough time has passed, Reaper seeks out Jesse McCree. He stopped himself from going to him immediately: he didn't trust Sombra not to blurt something about his interest in the cowboy. But, eventually, when Talon doesn't seem to be looking for him, Reaper takes the risk. 

It's harder without Talon’s resources at his fingertips, but Reaper lets the pull in his chest guide him. Eventually, he finds McCree in another no name bar in the Pacific Northwest. McCree is making steady progress through his customary bottle of whiskey, but Reaper hangs back, suddenly overcome by doubt. 

What is he going to say? Will McCree even listen? 

Why did he come here?

Reaper can’t force himself to act, but he can't bring himself to leave, either. He has nowhere to go. 

He wants, badly, to be able to talk to McCree, to understand the ache in his chest. 

So he watches McCree until he stumbles up from the bar, taking the bottle with him. Reaper melts back into the shadows, even though McCree is likely too far gone to notice him. He weaves across a parking lot to a motel tucked into the edge of the pine trees. Reaper hesitates, then follows. 

Through the window of the motel room, Reaper watches McCree toe off his boots and turn on the TV, leaving the lights off. He falls into bed, the bottle sloshing dangerously, as the light of the TV casts colorful shadows across his face. 

The ache in Reaper’s chest intensifies: longing, lonely, hopeless. 

McCree slumps further down on the bed, chin dipping towards his chest as the whiskey lulls him to sleep. Reaper hesitates. He wraiths through a crack in the window and down across the floor, pooling in the shadowy corner of the room before he allows himself to reform. 

“Leave me ‘lone,” McCree slurs without raising his head. 

“I didn’t come to kill you,” Reaper says. 

“Then you’re wastin’ your time,” McCree says. Reaper hesitates again, then steps out of the shadows. He pushes his hood back, revealing his unmasked face. 

“Jesse,” Reaper says. He sees McCree flinch but presses on anyway. “Jesse, I remember now. I remember what happened.”

“Do you?” McCree asks, finally lifting his head and leveling a hard look at Reaper. It makes that empty spot in his chest clench painfully. “Do you remember? ‘Cause if you did, I reckon you wouldn’t be here.”

Reaper isn’t sure how he should respond. McCree sits up, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. 

“I left you,” he says. His voice goes harsh, wavering slightly. “I left you and you didn’t go after me. I  _ abandoned _ you and you  _ died _ .”

For a moment, Reaper is speechless. The silence stretches on, McCree’s face twisted up in anguish. 

“I’m here now,” he says, finally. McCree gawks at him. 

“Ain't you listening?” he asks. “ _I_ _left you_.”

The clench in his chest intensifies; if Reaper needed to breathe, he'd be having a hard time if it now. As it is, he forces himself to swallow around the lump in his throat. 

“Jesse -” he says, a note of pleading coming into his voice without meaning to. 

“Don't. Either kill me or just - just fuckin’ leave me alone,” McCree says harshly. “I ain't up for playing games.”

“This isn't a game,” Reaper says, barely audible. It feels like what's left of his body is trying to turn itself inside out as it reaches for McCree. “This isn't a trick. I came to find you because - because -”

The words stick in Reaper’s throat. McCree stares at him, bleary-eyed, angry, defensive. 

“I was a fool to let you go,” Reaper says finally. “I loved you so much. I still do.”

McCree makes a small, pained noise and looks away. Reaper takes a step towards him, even though he's not sure it's the best idea. 

“Jesse,” Reaper says. “I died. I came back and the only thing I've been able to feel is you. Everything - I'm supposed to be here, I think. With you.”

“You died,” McCree says, his voice breaking. Reaper takes another step towards him. The ache in his chest isn't going away, it doesn't hurt any less, but it feels - somehow - less urgent the closer he gets to McCree. He reaches out haltingly and slides a hand under McCree’s chin, turning his head gently back to look at him. The touch sends chills down Reaper’s spine and he can't suppress the sharp inhale of breath that rises from his throat. 

The doubts melt away. There are still questions - so many unanswered questions - but Reaper knows, with certainty, this is where he's meant to be. He is Gabriel Reyes, formerly of Blackwatch, and he loves Jesse McCree. 

“I was always going to come back for you,” Gabe says, his voice going softer. With his thumb, he wipes away a tear that rolls down Jesse’s cheek. 

“It took you long enough,” Jesse says. The uncertainty is still there, coloring his words, but it's the look in his eyes that gives Gabe hope. They have a long way yet to go, but it's a start. 


End file.
